


Son of Sorrows

by TiredEagleOfManwe



Series: Who Laments for the Lamenters? [2]
Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grimdark, Hurt No Comfort, Knives, M/M, Manly Tears, Mental Anguish, One Shot, POV First Person, Past Torture, Physical Abuse, Punishment, Situational Humiliation, Torture, death visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27461371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredEagleOfManwe/pseuds/TiredEagleOfManwe
Summary: For a Lamenters Space Marine gang-pressed into the Deathwatch following the Badab War the greatest threats are not the xenos he fights but the murderous warriors who are his fellow battle-brothers...This is a sad story. But it's about a Lamenter so you knew that already.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Who Laments for the Lamenters? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027051
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	Son of Sorrows

_Watch Fortress Oberon, location [REDACTED] [914.M41]_

“Well met, brothers,” I say calmly, holding out my empty hands, my palms facing outwards in a conciliatory gesture. Though I direct the salutation at all four of the unhelmed black-armored Deathwatch Marines blocking my path it is the pale glittering eyes of the Flesh Tearer, Relth, I attempt to catch. Under my imploring gaze his savagely-scarred once-handsome face contorts in revulsion and he peels back his lips to reveal augmented steel teeth bared in a feral snarl.

“I am not your ‘brother,' Lamenter,” Relth spits, the guttural Low Gothic words laced with contempt and overshadowed by a boiling rage barely held in check. “You are no legitimate scion of Sanguinius; you are a traitor and accursed, a disgrace to the true Chapters of the Blood. Do not look to me for understanding or mercy – I will gladly slay you without hesitation, should the order ever be given.”

He speaks sincerely so I turn from his hateful regard to meet the pitiless gaze of the leader, Zexire of the Minotaurs Chapter, one of the largest Astartes I have ever seen even when not clad in Terminator armor. He grins at me. There is no warmth or goodwill in the expression. It is a grin that promises pain and retribution. I am no fool. I know why they are here. This is a confrontation I have been jointly dreading and anticipating for months. Still, I seek a way to salvage my dignity. Perhaps I truly deserve what is to come but I see no reason to yield to it as matter of course. I still have my pride; my detractors have yet to strip me of that, even if they have taken virtually everything else.

“Allow me to arm and armor myself, Zexire, and I will fight you with the weapons of your own choosing.” Sensing my ploy, Zexire’s grin morphs into a sneer and he shakes his shaven head. “I am not here to duel you, Lamenter. No. I have come to ask you one simple question. Once you have answered it to my satisfaction, righteous punishment will be meted out as I see fit.” At this declaration the Marine Malevolent standing at the Minotaur’s left gives a malicious chuckle and flexes his polished gauntlets. Kyathe, the Carcharodon Astra on Relth’s right, licks his lips as if he can already taste my blood upon them, though his inscrutable void-black eyes betray no hint of emotion. 

I do not require the witchsight of a Librarian to descry the question Zexire intends to ask. If I answer it truthfully his fury will see me beaten into bloody oblivion. I could lie, but the dishonor of having done so will fester in my soul long after my body recovers. Am I remorseful of the Minotaur blood I spilled during the terrible siege of the _Mater Lachrymarum_ , the siege that saw my Chapter defeated and brought to the brink of ruination? Am I repentant? Only when I consider the conflict in hindsight. If forced to relive those brutal hours a second time my actions would remain unchanged. I would fight again - and kill again - protecting those I cherish.

I suspect Zexire knows this. The Minotaur is justified in his hatred of me, though it does not excuse his method of revenge. He acts without honor yet he cares not. None of them do. I am a traitor to them – it is all I will ever be in their eyes; despite the rivers of xenos blood I spill I cannot seem to atone for my past sins and failings. The benighted heritage of my Chapter hangs over my head like an executioner's ax waiting to fall at the slightest provocation. Still, I do not back down. I am of the Adeptus Astartes, even as they are. The holy blood of the Great Angel runs true through my veins regardless of what Relth claims. I refuse to be battered into submission without making a stand.

The four Space Marines spread out and close in upon me, not bothering to draw their weapons. There is no need. I am unarmed and unarmored, clad only in gray sweat-soaked training fatigues and substantially weakened by hours of exertion spent pushing my naked physiology to its limits fighting combat-servitors with my bare hands. The rack of practice weapons is beyond my reach. I had been training in a series of practice cages in a remote seldom-frequented wing of the watch fortress reserved for its contingent of anonymous Black Shields. Shunned even by the Astartes of my own kill-team I come here in-between missions and briefings to hone my skills in solitude and escape the condemning looks and judgmental whispers of my Deathwatch brethren. The Black Shields, being penitent redemption-seeking warriors similar to myself, do not begrudge me the usage of their facilities; some even spar with me on occasion and their dour skull-helmed Chaplain deigns to hear my confessions in the gloomy confines of his candle-lit cell. But now I am alone. Bereft of allies I face my accusers with nothing but my fists and teeth. With the exception of Kyathe they are all smiling now, smiling at the prospect of my pain and humiliation. I know no fear. I force myself to smile back. Like the breaking of a storm they attack.

* * * 

“How many, Lamenter? How many of my battle-brothers did you kill before submitting to Imperial justice? You _will_ tell me or I shall see you broken and begging at my feet in fitting reparation.” 

I say nothing, still defiant despite the circumstances. Three seconds later Zexire’s gauntleted fist collides solidly with my lower jaw, fracturing it in several places and shattering five teeth. Blood fills my mouth and I spit contemptuously at the Minotaur’s boots. With an animalistic growl Relth twists my right arm further behind by back, threatening to dislocate it from my shoulder with his armor-augmented strength. I cannot dodge or block Zexire’s blows. The Flesh Tearer and the Malevolent hold my bare arms in vice-like grips, rendering me immobile and defenseless against my assailant. Only Kyathe remains apart. The Carcharodon keeps vigil by the exit of the dueling cage, his pallid face expressionless yet expectant. I do not know how long the beating has lasted. Multiple bones are broken and the upper segment of my black carapace is cracked. My fatigues are in tatters; clotted blood obscures the livid bruises covering my body. Still, I have suffered worse indignities during my long service as a Space Marine. I am a Lamenter. It is what I have come to expect - and accept. 

“It will only get worse,” Zexire promises, tapping the pommel of his combat knife for emphasis. “Soon I will tire of pummeling you and will move on to more visceral methods. Give me the true tally, before I make things genuinely unpleasant for you.” 

“Then duel me like a man, Zexire,” I snarl furiously through bloodied lips. “If you manage to best me I’ll tell you just how many of your maniacal grox-brained brothers I slew.”

The Minotaur’s next blow smashes brutally into my scarred abdomen. His strength is tremendous and he knows just how to utilize it against a fellow Space Marine without killing him. The pain is excruciating but I give him no satisfaction of seeing it show in my eyes. Despite being fully armored Relth and the Malevolent must brace themselves as I strain to break free and hurl myself at the huge Astartes. Zexire spits in my face and the skin of my left cheek blisters as the acidic spittle burns into it. Rage, deep and seething, roils sickly through my veins. “Fight me, coward!” I cry, pushing it down. He leers and draws his knife. “No. You are undeserving of that privilege. Hold him.” Relth and the Malevolent adjust their stances and grip me tighter, their armored fingers digging into my biceps. Recollections of another time and place stir in the back of my mind and my chest tightens in expectation.

“The High Lords were too merciful in their sentencing,” Zexire says as he begins to cut. “I would’ve ordered the remnants of the Lamenters Chapter to be put to the sword alongside the Astral Claws for their crimes. Or at the least I would’ve commanded the surviving officers and champions to be burned at the stake as a warning to other loyalist forces. One-hundred years of Deathwatch service in correlation with your Chapter’s penitent crusade is hardly a fitting punishment for a treasonous cur such as you. Such leniency disgusts me. How many, Lamenter? How many Minotaurs did you kill?”

My obstinacy has led us both to an impasse. If I tell him now I will further disgrace myself in my peers’ eyes, for it will seem to them that I only answer in order to escape the pain. The serrated edge of the knife scrapes against my carapace. The spicy stench of my own genhanced vitae is heady in my nostrils. I have been tortured before; the Night Lords Chaos Space Marines warband took cruel revenge after the slaying of their champion upon the ramparts of Stigenkeep on Orporoll II when we were finally overrun. I paid for that paltry victory a hundredfold with pain and privation that would have broken a lesser man a dozen times over. Rescue came almost too late and I was nearly interred within a Dreadnaught – but it had been my choice to live. Compared to Curze’s sadistic sons Zexire is an amateur. Still, his actions open a floodgate of foul memories I cannot completely shut out – 

_– the Night Lords’ grotesque corpse-pale faces snarl at me from unnatural shadows; blades and barbed whips tear open my exposed flesh; razorchains bind my limbs, restraining me while they take turns violating my body in various ways; my remaining battle-brothers tortured to the brink of death, their agonized forms crucified along the keep’s blood-soaked battlements; the despairing screams of the mortals we could not save stabbing into my mind –_

“He weeps!” Relth’s incredulous observation cuts through the torments of the past, forcing me to attend to the tribulations of the present. I blink, feeling the sting of the tears momentarily impairing my vision. Zexire withdraws his knife as the Malevolent grabs a fistful of my shoulder-length hair and jerks my head up. The Minotaur peers into my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, his bronzed features twisting in scorn at the sight of a Space Marine weeping. It is likely an act he has never witnessed before amongst his own kindred. I do not know if I weep for myself, for my Chapter or for all the mortals I failed to protect. I am a Lamenter - I know of no other way to express my grief for the martyred Emperor’s ever-suffering Imperium.

“How _pathetic_ ,” Zexire snarls as he backhands me across the face, although there is a note of discomfort lurking within in his disgusted tone. “Do you think your miserable tears will stir me to pity? I have none. I am the Emperor’s retribution made manifest. I am the bane of renegades and traitors. I will break you until there is nothing left to break. You have no friends or allies to intervene on your behalf; you are forsaken, Lamenter. The Emperor has turned His face from you and your wretched Chapter will perish in ignominy –”

With a surge of strength born of grief for my condemned brethren I tear my arm free of the Malevolent’s grip and pulp Zexire’s nose with a satisfying crunch of bone. He bellows like an enraged bull as his kill-mates struggle to restrain me once more. Cursing my name in their native tongues they force me to my knees before the Minotaur. With a sickening _pop_ Relth dislocates my right arm. “I will rip it _off_ , traitor...” the Flesh Tearer hisses into my ear; before he can make good on his threat Zexire sizes my scalp and slams my face into the plasteel floor of the practice cage, breaking my nose and cheekbones. A grunt of pain escapes me and I nearly black out.

“Cut him, Kyathe,” the Minotaur commands as he drops to one knee before me, his gauntleted hand still gripping my hair. The three Astartes pin me in place, their combined strength rendering me compliant. The servo-joints in the Carcharodon’s power armor purr smoothly as he strides wordlessly to my side. Fresh agony flares along my spine as he methodically drags the tip of his knife down my bent back. Blood streams down my sides, the blood of a primarch betrayed leaking from the veins of a gene-son forsaken –

 _– ‘“For those we cherish we die in glory,’” a Night Lord sneers in amusement as he strokes my mutilated chest with his deactivated lightning claw during a brief reprieve. “Is_ this _the end you envisioned, Lamenter? You failed to protect those you claimed to ‘cherish’ so why_ should _you expect die in glory? What manner of warcry is that anyway?” I keep my silence and regard him with contempt; the Traitor Marine smiles through sharpened teeth and raises the barbed whip again –_

Unlike Zexire, Kyathe knows how to properly utilize a knife. My posthuman physiology works tirelessly to heal the damage but even as one wound knits shut the Carcharodon deftly inflicts another, opening up my flesh along the fault-lines of countless old scars. It is the powerlessness rather then the pain that torments me. Pain is a Space Marine’s lot; helplessness seldom is. Unable to defend myself, denied the agency to fight back, I lapse into a resolute silence that only serves to anger the Minotaur further. His heavy hand presses down on my head even as he resists the temptation to crush my skull. How many? How many Minotaurs did I slay during the siege? I will never tell him; only the watch commander and Chaplain of the Black Shields shall know the true tally.

"Enough," Zexire’s patience finally frays and I am hauled roughly to my feet again. The Minotaur places his knife against my throat, his dark eyes burning with a savage light. “You will die for your crimes against the Imperium either way, secessionist filth,” he growls, uncaring of the censure he will suffer for murder. “Answer me truthfully and I will make your end a swift one.” I bare my own blood-slicked teeth. “Fight me, _brother_ ,” I say softly as I meet his smoldering gaze. “I am the champion of the Lamenters 2nd Company and a consummate swordsman – you will enjoy the challenge, I assure you.”

"Why should he sully himself crossing blades with a Lamenter in honorable combat?" the Malevolent asks with undisguised disdain. "You forfeited your dignity as an Astartes the day your Chapter sided with the Tyrant of Badab. You are not worthy to stand as an equal amongst those of us who remain true to the Throne. A traitor's death is all you are owed. Confess your sins now or else die in disgrace like the misbegotten by-blow you are."

I ignore him and keep my eyes fixed on Zexire. "Do you fear me, Minotaur? Do you fear I will strike you down as I did your berserker battle-brothers? Your Chapter is also a product of the Cursed Twenty-First Founding. Give me a weapon and we shall see which of us the Emperor has truly turned His face from."

Gnashing his teeth like a maddened carnodon he applies pressure to the blade and a thin trickle of blood runs down my neck. “Slit his throat, Zexire,” the Malevolent urges eagerly. “Take his head. Who will fault you for avenging your slain brethren? You are justified in your actions; there are none here who will lament his death…” he pauses abruptly, then chuckles grimly at the accidental jest –

– _carrion birds cry their hunger as they circle above me; the wails and moans of the dying fill the chill air like a choir of the damned. I hang naked upon a makeshift crucifix, impaled through every limb to the welded stanchions. “Behold the False Emperor’s angels of death!” the Night Lords cry mockingly. “Look upon the Corpse God’s lackeys and despair!” The surviving captives weep and curse at the sight, their hope utterly extinguished. I have failed them; o father forgive me –_

“You deserve this, _kinslayer,_ ” Zexire says, all semblance of restraint and forbearence sloughing from him like a snake shedding its skin as his temper overmasters him. He cuts my throat. Bright lifeblood spills down my ravaged chest from the severed arteries. Before my Larraman cells can begin to clot the grievous wound the Minotaur digs his hand into the gaping cut to prevent it from closing. Blood washes over his black gauntlet and spatters across the floor at our feet. He grins again, delighting in his vengeance. Kyathe sighs in satisfaction at the sight. My vision goes gray at the edges; my hearts hammer like pistons in my ears. _Seventeen_. I slew seventeen Minotaur Space Marines during their Chapter’s massed assault upon the _Mater Lachrymarum_. Seventeen loyalist Astartes met their end at my bolter and blade as I fought to defend my Chapter’s crippled voidfaring sanctum. I had wept in anguished shame when I recounted the tale to the Black Shield Chaplain. If only we had known –

_– I kneel upon featureless ground on the threshold of death, surrounded by a roiling maelstrom of raging reds and abyssal blacks; there is no pain, no blood, no screams; I am alone – no, a Space Marine stands before me, armored in gold, his face obscured by a gilded deathmask adorned with ruby teardrops; fixed golden wings spread from his ornate jump-pack. I know of him: it is the Sanguinor, the mysterious herald of my primarch; before I can address him he salutes me with his sword and steps aside –_

Blood. So much blood – and all of it mine. Zexire claws my throat open further with his armored fingers, still grinning as my life ebbs from me in an unstopped tide of crimson. The others bear witness in silent approval. Will the watch commander order him executed for the deed, or will an exception be made because of the blow I struck against the Minotaurs Chapter? My knees buckle, forcing Relth and the Malevolent to hold me up by brute strength. I am cold. My body is trembling uncontrollably. My hearts are slowing with each successive beat. The pain begins to recede; I am dying. _O father –_

– _haloed in solar light Sanguinius comes, brighter and more radiant then Terra’s first dawn. I bow my head, filled with shame and grief. “Forgive me, father, for I have failed you.” His powerful hands raise me up and lift me to his chest. “No, you are the son of my sorrows – there is nothing to forgive.” Vast wings shield me as I rest my head against my primarch’s breastplate. “Will you come with me?” Sanguinius asks gently. Tears run down my cheeks. “I cannot, sire, there are too few of us left already. The Lamenters Chapter must endure. Someone has to hold the line –”_

I stare numbly at Zexire’s triumphant face without truly seeing it, clotting blood choking my ruined nose and mouth, alone and friendless, dying in like manner as my primarch at the hand of a brother. It need not have ended this way. I was given a choice. I could have yielded to death under the Night Lords’ ministrations and spared myself so much suffering and horror…but the line has to be held; the Imperium’s people must be protected, their faith and hardships honored and rewarded. My Chapter – does it still endure? Does it even exist? Are my battle-brothers still warring amongst the distant stars, keeping the xenos and the traitors from ravaging the outer fringe-worlds? Or has my gene-line finally ended in extinction? Am I the last of the Lamenters? _Emperor, do not turn from me...o_ _father...Sanguinius...into thy hands I commend my spirit –_

At a sign from the Minotaur the Deathwatch Marines release me and I collapse upon the floor in a pool of my own blood, too weakened to support myself. "For those...I cherish..." I whisper thickly as I struggle in vain to rise. Relth kicks me onto my back. Zexire draws his bolt-pistol and levels it at my head. “For the Emperor! For my brothers! For vengeance!” he roars, spittle spraying from his jaws. “For vengeance!” the others repeat in unison as they stare down at me without mercy or remorse. I close my eyes. I am tired. The Minotaur fires a single bolt-round. _For those I cherish I die in_ –

* * *

_– Sanguinius comes, brighter and more radiant then Terra’s first dawn. I kneel and bow my head, filled with shame and grief. “Forgive me, father, for I have still failed you.” His powerful hands raise me up and lift me to his chest for a second time. “No, you are the son of my sorrows – there is nothing to forgive.” Vast wings cover me as I rest my head against my primarch’s breastplate. There is no pain, no blood and no condemnation. I luxuriate in my gene-sire’s arms, truly at peace for the first time since my ascension to the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes. “Come, Valentaen,” Sanguinius brushes the hair from my face as I gaze at him in bliss. "My Legion awaits.”_

_“Your Legion, lord?” I ask, perplexed. He nods and sets me upon my feet. I realize I am clad in power armor once more. Tongues of flame dance up from my body without consuming it; a blazing sword is in my hand. Still confused, I look up at my primarch once again. A white-robed Child sits upon his right pauldron: a black-haired Boy with shining eyes and a wreath of laurels upon His head. Sanguinius extends an arm. I gaze outwards. We are surrounded by rank upon rank of fire-wreathed Space Marines. Rising above them on wings of flame are sainted mortals of past millennia: Saint Celestine, Saint Sabbet and Lord Solar Macharius among many others. The Sanguinor is with them, holding aloft a great battle-banner baring the Imperial Aquila. As one they salute the Angel and the star-eyed Child, a burning sea of bolters and blades thrusting upwards into a gold-hued sky._

_“Behold, the Legion of the Damned – the Emperor’s own elect champions who serve Him beyond the gates of death!” Sanguinius turns to me, his perfect face ablaze with psychic fire. “Will you take your rightful place among them, my son? For those you cherished you have died in glory.”_

_I raise my flaming blade, feeling power and conviction flood into my very essence until I am a being of unconquerable faith and avenging fury, ready once more to make war for the Emperor and the Imperium for the salvation of Mankind. Death has not put an end to duty – indeed, my duty has only just begun. "Yes, sire - I am yours to command." Sanguinius smiles and places a hand upon my pauldron. “The Lamenters endure,” he whispers quietly to me alone. “And no father could ask for more loyal, steadfast, true-hearted sons then the warriors of your Chapter.”_

_Joy envelops me, extinguishing the inescapable sorrow I have always borne deep in my hearts. The Lamenters Chapter endures. In the face of the most insurmountable trials and grueling tribulations my brethren endure, and insomuch as they endure so does the Imperium. We will never stop fighting to protect the Emperor’s people, never stop resisting the forces that would see them destroyed, nor ever falter in our efforts to keep the devouring darkness at bay. For those we cherish we die in glory. Ave Imperator. Gloria in excelsis Terra._


End file.
